Fanaticus
by AshDemonYoung
Summary: Fanatic: a person filled with excessive and single-minded zeal, especially for an extreme religious or political cause. Or a Road Runner.


_"A fanatic is a man who, when he's lost sight of his purpose, redoubles his efforts"_

— Poul Anderson, _Harvest of Stars_

* * *

The coyote lounged on his red clay recliner in his dimly lit den. His tender, brown-furred paws were stretched out on the foot rest with his back slumped down against its hard cushion. The furniture was not comfortable in the least, its solid surface pressing in a most painful way against his bony hips and protruding spine. Even his ankles, one crossed over the other, were sore from the harsh pressure of the rock recliner.

With such disagreeable conditions, one might ask, why be seated at all? The answer, as always, was a simple one.

Currently no other options were available, short of sitting on the equally hard ground. He had lost his previous plush, soft recliner in a most unfortunate skiing mishap, one involving artificial snow, miscalculated mass times acceleration, and several inconveniently placed cacti.

Now of course, he could have seated himself on his bedding to enjoy his quiet evening of self-indulgence; the hay and sheep wool filled mattress provided a soft temptation to the coyote. However, the time was not yet past seven and to fall into the silky embrace of his velvet sheets so early would be an admission of age Wile E. Coyote was not yet ready to make.

That, and were he to succumb to slumber, he was not quite sure whether he would awake, as he was currently nursing quite a severe concussion. So, the option was a non-option, which was to say, no options.

Though, the beverage held delicately between his middle and index finger also played a part in his refusal to be seated on anything less than proper propped-up furniture, for it was not only a concussion the coyote was nursing.

No, a glass of wine was carefully held in his paw. The alcohol of intellectuals and high sophistication...of which Wile E. Coyote most certainly was. He was genius of the most brilliant kind surrounded by an air of noble superiority even European royals would be jealous of.

The wine in his glass sloshed slowly as he brought it to his chapped lips. Its red contents were sipped into his mouth and a slow, satisfied smile spread across the coyote's elongated face.

Ah, _Je'en ai marre_ : a delightfully delicious French red wine the ACME corporation had generously provided for him. The aroma of blackberries wafted from the glass, pleasantly curling around his dry nose and filling his lungs. The slightly warm beverage carried the sweet flavor of the berries with overtones of black pepper spice and roasting meat.

His mouth began to water and his head grew dizzy at the thought. _Ahem_. Wile E. took a deep breath and regained his composure, reflecting on how such a rare treat had come into his possession.

It had come from France's Rhone Valley as a gift, and one of the few his employer had ever provided him with. However, as the date held a certain amount of gravitas, he could certainly understand the completely warranted decision, as it was Wile E. Coyote's tenth year anniversary of having signed his contract with the corporation as a sometimes inventor and full-time beta tester.

ACME was the first and only company that had understood the scope of his genius and had looked past his fur covered skull to see the brilliant mind that lay beneath. And brilliant it was, with an IQ of two-hundred and seven, his genius was _immeasurable_ , exceeding that of even the greatest historic scientist. To humbly put it, there was no mind greater than his. No creature alive could even hope to compare to the intellect of Wile E. Coyote, super genius. No man, mammal, reptile, amphibian, fish, nor insect stood anywhere near the spectrum of Wile's cranial capacity. No **bird** for that matter, either.

The coyote bit back a growl and took another long, slow drink of his wine, allowing its alcoholic properties and saccharine taste to dull the annoyance brought on by the mere thought of Aves. Horrid creatures. Far worse than even the poisonous rattlesnakes and scorpions that littered the Great Basin Desert. The only animal even coming close to avians on the irritation scale being Hares.

Specifically of the bipedal-grey variety, against which he had conducted a short-lived and unsuccessful campaign.

Had he not thought it simply possessed a speech impediment that made its typical grunting or _honking_ to sound like oxford English, he would have forgone his hunt of the creature entirely. Wile E. Coyote was a predator, but he was by no means primal. To hunt a sapient creature was positively barbaric, unfitting for an elevated intellectual such as himself. With personal experience of being on the receiving end of such a hunt and—Ah, well, best not go into such dark territory whilst glass and alcohol were in the same room together. A dangerous combination if past events were anything to go by. Which they were.

Forgoing a sense of propriety Wile E. leaned over the side of the armrest and sat the emptied wine glass down on the ground and began drinking straight from the bottle.

That absurd, foul creature. Ha. Foul. Fowl. The edges of his mouth curled into a lopsided grin. The bird was quite fowl indeed. Ha-ha.

He continued to chuckle to himself. Drinking and shaking in merriment at the oh-so appropriate term of fowl being applied to the avian. Though, by all technical definitions of the word, a roadrunner was not a fowl. They were neither raised for their feather, eggs, nor… **Meat.**

Oh, how he missed the taste of flesh. He licked his lips and smacked his chops, momentarily forgetting himself in the memory of the last time such a succulent poultry as roadrunner had last touched his taste buds.

His empty paw came to rest atop his forehead as he brought the bottle back to his lips and drank, lamenting on his current state of affairs. His horrendous luck and unbelievably unfortunate fate.

Roadrunners were an easy catch for a coyote, even ones that did not possess Wile's higher-level brain power. The bird's top speed clocking at twenty-six miles per hour, whereas a coyote was capable of reaching speeds of up to forty-three. Catching one should only take a small amount of cunning and a decent amount of cardio.

But oh no, not this one. Not _his_ Roadrunner. The freakish creature. It could not possibly be in the same class as the greater roadrunner, something he had never once had difficulty capturing before moving to the Great Basin Desert. No, the long-necked bird must have been in a class all its own. It had to be. Wile E. did not think he could take there being more than one of the feathery beast.

 _Accelleratti Incredibus_.

That was the Latin name he had given the creature. Wile E. Coyote would go down in the history books as not only the world's greatest mind, but also as a discoverer of near Darwinian levels of importance, for what could be a greater discovery within the animal kingdom of Avis than that of a species capable of running faster than rockets? Simply put, there could not be.

He took another swig of the wine, patting his stomach and enjoying the warm feeling of fullness it created within the organ's small confines.

Rockets, skies, cars, planes, helicopters—The Roadrunner had outrun them all. When Wile E. had first bore witness to the bird's peculiar talent, he had scarcely believed his eyes. Impossible, had been his first thought. A trick of the heat, a mirage. Perhaps he had been more tired than previously calculated and had been running at a much slower speed than originally thought. Maybe he had finally done what so many college professors had accused him of and gone mad.

It had been none of those things. Though, thinking back on it, the coyote would have preferred madness over the reality he was now faced with.

An endless hunt. Endless suffering.

For the first five years of his time spent in the southwest desert, he had lived relatively peacefully. He created various ingenious inventions for the ACME corporation, he tested the ones sent to him by other scientists for a second opinion, and he hunted, always giving his prey ample warning by way of providing the simple creatures with his business card. All they had to do was call the number on the back to call off the hunt, a feat they were all too unintelligent to pull off. Thus, they were fair game. Ha. Fair game.

Like that hare. The horrible, horrible hare.

He took another drink, the red liquid burning its way down his throat.

Perhaps that is where he had gone wrong. Not with the Lepus, but with the Roadrunner: the one animal he had never given his business card to. Though could he truly be blamed for such a fault? No coyote would dare blame Wile E. for such a lapse in judgment, what with roadrunner being to the taste buds of a coyote what caviar, champagne, filet mignon, and chocolate fudge are to the taste buds of a man.

His stomach rumbled and a bit of drool slid down his chin.

Hmph. The _Super-Sonicus Idioticus_ lacked the brain capacity to make a phone call anyway, its brain being no doubt smaller than that of tiniest mouse. He was not at fault for not providing the dimwitted creature with his card. Having gone so long, five years to be exact, on eating only small rodents and reptiles, ignoring such a scrumptious, nostalgic meal running past him as though it had not a care in the world was too much to ask for even a _canis latrans_ of his powerful restraint.

Then, the bird had not once uttered a word of protest towards his hunt, the occasional _meep meep_ non-withstanding. The dull thing continued its life in blissful ignorance of the coyote's predatory desires. Had the Roadrunner been capable of any higher thought process, it would have long ago alerted Wile E. to its distress of being hunted by such an alpha predator. No, no. Wile E. Coyote was not the one at fault when it came to his never-ending chase.

It was the _**universe.**_

Another swig of the wine and Wile E. noted, absently, that he was down to less than half a bottle.

The universe conspired against him. Gravity conspired against him. But it had not always been that way. Up until five years ago all within the desert had been normal. The laws of gravity were adhered to and if an invention failed, it was because of faulty design, not due to some unknown cosmic entity that had for some reason turned against the greatest, most super of geniuses ever bestowed upon the universe. One would think— _Wile E._ would think—it would be grateful just having one so amazing such as he within its cosmic confines.

Perhaps the universe was jealous.

What did it matter that he had never properly introduced himself to his quarry, anyway? He was a coyote. An anthropomorphic coyote, but a coyote none-the-less. Coyotes did not ask nicely to hunt; they claimed a territory, they defended it, and they took the bounty that lay within as they pleased. They did _not_ politely ask to hunt a skinny, scrawny, stringy, unappetizing, anemic, ugly, and misbegotten bird.

No matter. Wile E. Coyote liked to pride himself on being a civilized gentleman. The Roadrunner did not deserve such treatment. It mocked him with its idiocy, its brazenness and shear gall to exist within the same space of desert as him. The thing deserved to be eaten. Wile E. deserved to eat it. Five years of chasing the same prey, facing humiliating after humiliating failure. He _deserved_ it. To eat it. Yes.

The quest he had set himself on all those years ago had yet to be fulfilled. What would happen should the scientific community find out about his constant five-year string of defeat in the face of a mindless animal? The thought of Wile E. Coyote being remembered for anything but his brilliance had driven the coyote near mad with unbridled rage.

Note: _near_ mad. Not mad. Wile E. Coyote was many things, but he was not crazy, nor was he obsessed with his quarry. If anything, it could be argued he was obsessed with success. Not such a bad thing to be obsessed with, in his always right opinion.

He took another long, slow drink and watched with an abysmal expression as the bottle's red contents were drained to near empty.

Like his stomach.

Also, a fault of the Roadrunner's, as the bird had a similar diet to the coyote's own. Using its speed, the _Velocitus Tremenjus_ had easily scooped up all the prey within the confines of Wile's territory with its unsightly yellow beak. It had been partially the reason why he had incorporated bird seed into many of his traps, hoping the cheap food would sate the bird's hunger and kill two birds, or just the one, with one stone. It had not. Even with the birdseed filling its minuscule belly, the Roadrunner seemed to peck clean everything edible in the desert short of the cacti.

The only bout of luck Wile E. ever seemed to have was when he fell off a cliff and the eruption of pain that resulted was enough to make one lose their appetite. There was also often a dead rat or a lizard, once even a rattlesnake, waiting him for him at the bottom of the canyon, which he would quickly snatch up, eating them raw in fear of the Roadrunner zipping by and taking the food for itself.

Those tiny morsels had become the coyote's only means of meals for years, keeping him from starvation, if only just barely. Though…

He brought the bottle to his lips once more and sipped, pondering.

Could he die of starvation? It was a question to be asked, for sure. Wile E. believed himself to be immortal, a development that had also occurred five years ago. Before 1951, he distinctly remembered bones needing the proper amount of time to heal, and deep cuts leaving scars and fur taking months to regrow. Not anymore. The appearance of the too fast Roadrunner had come with it his own too fast healing ability. An ability he both loved and detested. It saved him from death by prolonging his suffering.

No doubt another cruel turn of fate brought about by a jealous universe.

Wile E. pulled the bottle away from his lips, frowning.

Empty.

Like everything else in his life—How unfortunate.

He gripped the neck of the bottle tightly and pushed, or tried to push, himself out of the hard chair. Maybe, just maybe, he had missed a second bottle in his mailbox. It took another, quivery armed attempt before he finally pushed his meager weight out of the recliner.

Wile E. stood on shaky legs as his living room spun around him, the chemistry set against the far back of his den nothing more than a blur of acid washed colors. The walls and ceiling blended together in their mute brownness, making movement difficult. He could not tell whether he was walking along the ground or the walls. Another strange phenomenon. While gravity was never regular in the expansive desert, his own home had never reacted to his presence in such a way. How odd.

He hunched slightly and spread his arms out wide, still holding the bottle, in order to regain his balance. One step, two steps—that's it. He was making progress. Or at least he thought he was making progress. Difficult to tell with how the room refused to stay still. Much like his nemesis, the Roadrunner, it had to defy physics.

Pheh.

Walking was much more challenging than Wile E. remembered it being. Walking without injury, at least.

The closer he came to the green wooden door that marked the entrance to his home, the more sour his expression became. Had there been more alcohol in the bottle, walking would have been easier. Wile E. was sure of it. He was sure of everything. He was a super genius after all. IQ of two-hundred and seven. Immeasurable genius.

His sharp claws scraped against the door, seeking the copper knob. He started at the top and scratched downward until he hit its metallic surface, then gripped it and pulled, and—ah. Wait. He needed to turn the handle first. How uncharacteristically forgetful of him. Another thing to blame on the wine. Had he more of it, he never would have forgot something so base.

Once the knob had been properly turned, he swung the door open and stumbled out into the chill desert night, shielding his eyes away from the obscenely bright moon and glaring at the empty bottle from beneath his protectively raised forearm. Troublesome thing. Had it not become empty, he would not be subjected to such bright light and cold temperatures.

Why had he even come out again? There was a reason he never hunted at night. His type of coyote absolutely loathed the cold, a common staple of desert nights. His mailbox was not even located on his terrace, but rather several feet down next to the road.

Roadrunner.

He turned his glare away from the empty bottle and toward the bright shining orb in the sky.

The moon mocked him. The sky surrounding it mocked him. The very universe itself mocked him. How dare it. He was Wile E. Coyote. Super genius. IQ of two-hundred and seven. He did not _deserve_ -

A growl left him, and as his inhibitions had been drained away with the contents of the wine bottle, Wile E. could not help himself. He did something he had not done in over a decade.

He howled.

He howled and howled and howled until his throat burned with more than just the aftertaste of alcohol. His head swam as his brain drowned in the red liquid and he grew dizzy as air repeatedly left his lungs in large bouts. He swayed, dropping the empty bottle and wincing as it crashed against the ground. Breaking. The world shook around him and Wile E. stumbled, incoherent thoughts racing through his mind.

Did he still have a concussion? Doubtful. Would he fall? He would fall. Or had he already fallen? Metaphorically? Not literally, surely. There was broken glass on the ground. Would he stumble across it with his bare paws? Of course he would. Broken glass? Wile E. Coyote would be all over that. Literally. Unpleasantly. Painfully. How nice it would be for a horrible thing to be in the area and not have it immediately affect him. He was oh-so tired of hurting. Of feeling his bones crush only to accordion back into place seconds later. Of having his eyes tear out of his skull or internal organs rupture. The absolute agony that came as his body repaired itself in an all too fast a process leaving him dry heaving and panting.

He continued to stumble across the cliff face that made up his front lawn, worries of falling off it flitting through his alcohol addled mind. He did not fall off the cliff face, but rather to the ground. Face first. The hard rock smashed against his snout, but Wile E. could not be bothered to care. It would repair, he had amazingly missed the glass, and he was tired. Oh, so tired. Too tired to pick himself back up. And so, so hungry too.

Exhaustion had taken up a permanent residence around his eyes and hunger within his stomach, and he briefly thought about eating the broken glass.

Pathetic. Utterly pathetic, to be driven to such a state of desperation. It was the Roadrunner's fault. Taunting him with its existence. With its plug-like tongue noise. That terrible bird had done this to him. Had pushed him to such extreme misery. Wile E. Coyote was brilliant. A supeeer geniuuuuus. IQ of...of…

His tired eyes slid shut, the swaying world no longer visible to the inebriated coyote. But even with black coloring his vision, he remained aware, not yet quite ready to succumb to sleep. Wile E. Coyote did not succumb to anything. Not madness, not the universe, and certainly not the Roadrunner _._

His breathing came out in rapid pants as anger began to overcome the fatigue, as it always—

Something brushed tenderly over his head, and had he the energy, his ears would have perked. The touch was gentle, but experience told the coyote it would not remain such for long. Soon pain would come. Hopefully enough to knock him into the sweet embrace of oblivion.

He lay, waiting for the pain to come. Seconds, then minutes passed by. Nothing. Just the gentle, what could only be described as petting of his fur. It felt… nice? Yes, nice. Something sharp traced along bottom of an ear, down to the bridge of his snout, then back up. The motion was repeated, but despite the object's obvious pointed tip, it did not pierce his skin. Nothing was shredded and no arteries torn.

How odd. How pleasant.

It must have been the alcohol, causing phantom pleasantries rather than phantom pains. If that was the effect the impairing beverage had on him, Wile E. would need to order more. Brew his own. Anything to repeat the feeling now tracing along his spine and down to his tail, sliding through the thick fur found there before returning to the starting position at the top of his skull and repeating the motion. Over and over and over and _oh._

Awareness of his surroundings gradually began to fade as the black that filled his vision crept into his consciousness.

Wile E. whined. The pitiful sound a point of embarrassment were he not alone with whatever mysterious force was making him feel good for the first time in five years. The coyote thought he heard a dulcet _meep meep_ in response to his vocalization. But no, it could not be, for not even that accursed Roadrunner could ruin the moment for him.

And with that final thought, his grip on consciousness faltered and Wile E. Coyote fell willingly into sweet, peacefully pleasant oblivion.

* * *

 **A/N:** Might make a companion piece from the Roadrunner's point of view. Feedback is always welcome.


End file.
